


remains

by firetrap



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Yu-Gi-Oh! Series
Genre: M/M, Tendershipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 10:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetrap/pseuds/firetrap
Summary: Bakura finds a letter in an old notebook.





	remains

**Author's Note:**

> But  
> if each day,  
> each hour,  
> you feel that you are destined for me  
> with implacable sweetness,  
> if each day a flower  
> climbs up to your lips to seek me,  
> ah my love, ah my own,  
> in me all that fire is repeated,  
> in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,  
> my love feeds on your love, beloved,  
> and as long as you live it will be in your arms  
> without leaving mine. 
> 
> \- from If You Forget Me by pablo neruda
> 
> because that poem inspired me to fill the gaps

 

He finds it one day while Ryou is gone.

 

As customary, and out of boredom, and _begrudgingly_ out of loyalty to not go out without Ryou being there with him, Bakura explores the confines of the apartment which he affectionately refers to as Ryou’s mind.

 

First, he begins in the quickest of the rooms to look through—the kitchen, for starters. There’s never anything new there, other than food, of which, having accompanied Ryou shopping, Bakura knows exactly what it is.

 

Of course he does—he asked for Ryou to buy many of the things inside the cupboards and fridge, inside canisters and cabinets. Not by choice, however. Only _asked_ because Ryou saw him once swipe a plum, eat it, and spit the pit into another shopper’s basket.

 

Did he really have to pay for it if the thing was already gone?

 

Yes, he did, if he wanted for _this_ to work, Ryou chides.

 

He’d kissed him there behind an aisle—interrupting Ryou’s lesson about being a law-abiding citizen—and whispered, Yes, he did want this to work, and Ryou paused, said he tasted like plums—and then he laughed because the woman would find a wet plum seed inside her cart even though she hadn’t bought any, and Bakura didn’t understand why that was funny but he leaned into Ryou’s curving lips again, making him taste the sweet-sour lingering juices of the fruits Ryou was so fond of.

 

Bakura, of course, didn’t stop taking things. The one time Ryou _saw_ him was because he got careless and he told himself that was a fail on his part. That Ryou was more observing than he gave him credit for and that he had to be extra careful. Bakura made sure to take small insignificant objects—for fun, mostly— and more often for personal reasons, he’d take a bite out of a forbidden fruit, loving every taste of it because he knew Ryou disapproved of him stealing—of thieving his way through the store and leaving a blatant trail of his existence—of challenge to the modern world, as if saying, I’m still here. I’m still here and I will do things the way I’ve done them before.

 

 

And every time he did, every time he challenged, he would see the slight turn of Ryou’s head in another direction or find Ryou very focused on reading a label of canned goods he’d bought so many times before.

 

 

And after—

 

After, when they neared Ryou’s apartment, Bakura would pull him behind the building, bags in tow, and kiss him against the wall, and Ryou, in the least accusatory tone, would say, You taste like plums.

 

 

No longer confined to his mind, no longer having access to the everything that was Ryou, he looks towards the physical to find him.

He invades belongings—books, clothing, toys—finds something new each time, and grows fascinated, remarking at every discovery:

 

Oh, you’re into _that_ now, are you? when stumbling across a board game Ryou hid away to assemble first.

 

Or once, upon finding two books inside Ryou’s school bag, weathered, and obviously read on more than one occasion—

 

 

Bakura looks through the pages, eyebrows lifting at every flip, smirk growing in tandem with amusement—

Ryou walks out of the bathroom, all smiles and cheer, and ready for bed.

Bakura has already returned the books to their rightful place. He stands behind the couch in a half-lean, not suspicious _at all_ , barely keeping his composure when Ryou tells him goodnight and hides himself away inside his room.

 

Bakura stares at the door to the room, then at the bag, sitting _not_ so innocently—not anymore—on the cushions.

 

 

I had _no_ idea.

 

 

And when he discovers clothing— _outfits_ , carefully matched, buried at the back of Ryou’s closet, and not the disaster of plaids and stripes Ryou wears and calls presentable—

 

This is unexpected, especially for _you_ , Landlord.

 

They were, for the most part presentable. If by presentable he meant predictable—nothing at all like Ryou—

 

Stiff squares, rigid lines.

 

A boring assortment of khakis and browns and thick blanket-like sweaters in _egg-shell white_ —

 

He approved quite vocally when Ryou would, on a whim, wear Bakura’s leather.

 

With those black shoulders contrasting with the white of Ryou’s hair over which, he would look over, eyes crinkled at the corners and a half-smile curling his lips—

 

Bakura always knows what _that_ smile means—

 

But sometimes Bakura would want to—

 

He looks at Ryou with his _pretty_ green eyes and the dark eyebrows and lashes that are deep black like those blackest of nights.

 

He wants to adorn Ryou in silks and satins, expensive fabrics of vibrant colors, rich textures—dress him in ways that would make him glow like the moon and outshine the stars.

 

Bakura, seeing Ryou there, and Ryou seeing him, would peel off one layer—

 

And then another—

Drag his fingers along bare skin as Ryou sighs, content, blissful—happy.

 

He would murmur into his neck sweet things that made him blush and touch him in ways that made him gasp and squirm—

 

And Bakura would decorate him again and again with deep purple kisses and soft pink bites, until it was just Ryou.

 

Just him and all the evidence that was Bakura.

 

 

 

The last thing he finds is—

 

A Letter.

 

He’s overturned the figurine room—impressed by the new additions to their campaign.

Bakura has moved on to the living room, gone into the laundry room—uninterested in the pile of their dirty clothes.

The final room is Ryou’s.

He’s careful when he walks in there.

 

Everything there is Ryou—smells like him.

 

Like a mosaic, if he pieces the objects together, Bakura will find him.

He’s found him countless times, treasuring each version of Ryou’s self-collage.

Sometimes, Bakura finds himself, too, lodged within the layers of what is Ryou.

 

Like his leather coat folded neatly at the top of the closet.

 

Or his cards inside Ryou’s deck sitting on the nightstand.

 

Or the Ring.

 

Neither wears it anymore—

But neither can part with it either.

 

Bakura doesn’t tell Ryou that sometimes he can’t stand to look at it because Ryou likes to keep it close, regardless of the things Bakura did to him because of it. He sees him admiring it lovingly before putting it back in its usual place. So Bakura doesn’t say anything about it—about how that Millennium Item came to be.

 

 

Sometimes, at night, when Ryou’s soft breathing has steadied, and Bakura is on the brink of sleep himself—

 

He hears the whispers of his family agonizing and cursing him and calling out for him to join them—

 

Their threats of dragging him down to Hell, descriptions of Amut’s wide beckoning jaws—

 

Ryou finds him later in the living room after he has roused from his slumber, customary of him to wake up for a glass of water.

 

He doesn’t know anything about those haunting voices because Bakura doesn’t tell him, but he suspects Ryou knows about his nightmares—maybe not the content of them—but Ryou cradles his head nonetheless soothing him until night passes.

 

It’s all right.

It’s all right Bakura, and Bakura can’t believe how much so little words can mean because No, it’s not all right. It’s never been and never will be—

 

And Ryou holds him tighter and in his embrace, Bakura feels his warmth, hears his beating heart—

 

 

The feeling lingers into morning when the sun has come up and Bakura has stopped hearing _their_ angered laments.

 

 

Ryou has fallen asleep by then with his arms around Bakura and damn him— _drooled_ on him, but Bakura recalls the serenity—the peace that comes from Ryou’s firm voice, those assuring words of unwavering belief.

 

 

He stops hearing their voices for a long time.

 

 

The torment of not being able to avenge them lulls to a quiet.

 

 

Ryou’s voice tells him again—after he parts the veil between the world of the living and the dead, something Bakura requests after an intense debate with himself—that they are at peace. They are at rest.

 

 

 

Bakura is able to sleep again, with only Ryou’s sounds at his side.

 

 

He starts to believe in the way that Ryou believes with his never-ending optimism that Everything might be all right.

 

 

So when he finds _it—_ something inevitably breaks.

 

 

It’s stuffed haphazardly in an old notebook, the binding frayed and loose. There’s indentions on the cover of the journal from countless characters drawn over and over—the same ones as always—

 

_Dear Amane—_

_Dear Amane—_

_Dear Amane—_

Bakura is about to throw the stray sheet in what he calls the _junk_ pile, when the wrinkled paper flutters to the ground.

He gives it a side-glance, bends, picks it up, and holds it to his face.

The paper looks as if it’s been crumpled but has been smoothed over to better fit between the sheets. It is strange to Bakura, though, Ryou having always taken care to write Amane’s letters in bright colored stationary—colors he thought she’d like for when she’d receive said letter.

 

 

She started middle school today, he says with a smile. Do you think she knows how to read this kanji yet?

He shows Bakura not expecting him to respond. Bakura keeps a close eye on him.

I hope mother packed her lunch. She used to pack mine and drew smiles on my rice. Everyone was jealous.

Ryou signs the letter at the bottom, folds it, takes it with him as he stands.

He kisses Bakura on the cheek and leaves a cold spot where his lips descended.

I hope she makes lots of friends, he says, smile never faltering, and walks to his room.

 

 

Bakura discovers easily the hidden compartment of the drawer where Ryou keeps Amane’s letters and leaves it just as he finds it.

 

Ryou being so secretive about those letters, Bakura took care to give Ryou, at least, one thing that he maintained as his, and so, never read them.

 

Curiosity, however, is a difficult thing to fight off, especially in the third hour of boredom, with four more to go.

If Ryou hadn’t bothered to keep _this_ one with the others, then Bakura had no reason _not_ to read it—

 

The paper doesn’t crinkle as he straightens the header.

 

 

_Dear Bakura_ —

*

 

*

 

*

 

 

The door closes, Ryou sets down a pair of plastic bags on the table, slides his backpack off his shoulders.

 

Sorry, I’m late, he says. His words travel to Bakura from somewhere far away.

 

He walks over to the light switch, flicks it on, gives the back of Bakura’s head a puzzled look.

 

Why are you sitting in the dark? You can turn on the light you know.

 

Says he brought steak—one of Bakura’s favorites.

 

Bakura is watching something on television. Sports, probably—it’s the weekday and there’s nothing else except news and old soaps—

 

Sometimes the players fight if they’re losing and the other team taunts.

 

 

He’s told Ryou this and Ryou asks why he doesn’t just watch boxing or sumo or martial arts but Bakura says those are no fun. In those you _know_ they’re going to fight.

 

 

But tonight, Bakura remains unnervingly quiet. The TV is muted, too.

 

It’s just the moving figures on the screen and Ryou and Bakura’s presence around the apartment.

 

 

Ryou senses the atmosphere. Treads carefully, unsure of what has affected Bakura.

 

 

You’ll strain your eyes, he tells him softly. Bites his lip when Bakura doesn’t answer.

 

He walks to the table to set out the hamburger steak he’s brought home, _wanting_ Bakura to respond. He keeps trying.

 

It’s not the fancy kind, but they haven’t eaten take-out in a long time and Bakura loves the greasy fried foods, the thick noodles of udon piled with vegetables—

 

 

The expensive steaks Ryou can’t afford—not yet—but Bakura manages to get somehow, (Ryou doesn’t ask) on special occasions—

 

His hand stops on the bag, the smell of their food wafts out.

 

 

Bakura turns off the television and Ryou expects him to saunter over and take his portion, but the room is, somehow, more silent. He throws the remote to one side and it bounces pathetically off the cushions.

 

 

Ryou is at his side, worried. He places a hand on his shoulder and calls out his name.

 

 

Bakura? he repeats. By now, he’s grown panicked.

 

 

Bakura? he touches his forehead, thinking he’s sick.

 

 

He finds violet eyes dull, a simmering anger just beneath, and stills his hand, brings it down.

 

 

Bakura’s voice strikes him with sudden short jagged quivering syllables—cuts down Ryou before he gets a chance to speak again.

 

 

How many?

 

 

Ryou blinks, confusion growing.

 

 

How many what?

 

 

How many did you write?

 

 

How many did I write? How many what? Bakura?

 

 

Ryou’s eyes follow him, alarmed at the sudden movement when Bakura stands.

 

 

Bakura looks into those eyes, wide in their surprise.

 

Their strength, their confidence—

 

 

Suddenly frail.

 

Suddenly fallen from what Bakura is so used to seeing.

 

From what has held Bakura together through his grief, guilt of failure.

 

 

 

And it hurts.

 

 

Everything has stopped. Everything has come to a standstill.

 

He sees Ryou and Ryou sees him. They see each other, the cracked imperfections, how each mends the broken lines of their personas—

 

How each holds up their frailty, makes it possible to function without pain or regrets.

 

And for once, after their split into two, he and Ryou are one again.

 

 

He feels all that is Ryou inside him and understands—

 

 

The blank letter _almost_ thrown away, forgotten. That wordless letter addressed to him and only him.

 

 

Nothing to say.

 

 

But something _almost_ said.

 

 

Something like the unspoken longing in Amane’s letters.

 

Something like the hopelessness and despair at every end.

 

 

He places his hands on Ryou’s face, cups it tenderly between his palms.

 

 

 

Don’t ever give up.

 

 

He presses his forehead against Ryou’s.

 

 

Don’t ever think I can let you.

 

 

He sees Ryou looking at him—his words inevitably reaching something he had buried deep in his soul. Crumpled down like the blank letter.

 

 

Bakura? Ryou tries again and Bakura hovers his lips over Ryou’s mouth, feels the shaky breath on his skin that Ryou lets out at the unexpected gesture.

 

 

I will always come back.

 

 

Ryou’s chest puffs, stops. His hand curls on Bakura’s breast.

 

 

Bakura is quick to plant kisses on Ryou’s cheeks, brush his skin with loving whispers.

 

 

 

 

 

I will always come back to you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later, when Ryou is asleep, snoring, Bakura disentangles himself from their lover’s embrace.

 

 

He silently leaves the room with a paper sheet in his left hand.

 

 

_Dear Bakura_ , it reads—

 

 

And nothing more.

 

 

There’s a gentle breeze that blows in the night. Bakura lets it pass and stroke his hair with soft murmurs—promises of a cruel destiny that he can’t decipher but will change.

 

 

_Has_ changed.

 

 

He takes the letter between his fingers, tears it apart and burns it.

 

 

The glowing fire reflects in his eyes until there is only ashes and then—

 

With the lingering wind trailing behind itself—

 

Then, and only then, there is no evidence that Bakura was ever gone.

 

 

 

 

He returns inside and slips back under the warmth of the covers.

 

Presses himself against Ryou and rests his head on the blade of his shoulder. Caresses naked skin over and over and hears Ryou mumble in his sleep.

 

 

Now, there is no proof that he was ever gone.

 

 

Bakura kisses him behind the neck.

 

 

 

All that remains is Ryou.

 

 

 

Just Ryou, and all the evidence that is Bakura.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hello i hoped you all enjoyed this.
> 
> this was a prompt from [dailyau](http://dailyau.tumblr.com/) on tumblr that i finally managed to get done.
> 
> you can also find it on [my tumblr](https://ikutos.tumblr.com/post/175480544120/remains-firetrap-yu-gi-oh-archive-of-our) in case i ever delete this off here sweats ;;


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